Lost in Orbit
by KLMeri
Summary: On a mission to track down a missing delegation party, the Enterprise crew find themselves embroiled in a game of cat and mouse with another ship. When some of Kirk's crew are captured, the chase turns into a nightmare. Gen.
1. Prologue

**Title** : Lost in Orbit (1/?)  
 **Author** : klmeri  
 **Fandom** : Star Trek TOS  
 **Characters** : Kirk, Spock, McCoy, Enterprise crew  
 **Summary** : On a mission to track down a missing delegation party, the Enterprise crew find themselves embroiled in a game of cat and mouse with another ship. When some of Kirk's crew are captured, the chase turns into a nightmare.  
 **A/N** : I said I would start a new Triumvirate action/thriller work sometime in 2017. I apologize, as getting around to that took longer than expected. I wish I had many tantalizing details to share with you about the plot, but alas there is only one: it's Spock's turn to find trouble. And with that… The adventures of the starship Enterprise are once again underway!

* * *

 **Prologue**

Data padd tucked under an arm, Cpt. James T. Kirk steps through the doorway, the last man to enter the main briefing room on the vessel he has sworn to command. He takes a seat at the head of an oblong table, allowing his gaze to touch on each officer present in the room.

"Thank you all for joining me on such short notice," he begins. "A little over an hour ago, the _Enterprise_ received a priority one missive. Having reviewed its contents and discussed the situation with Command, I am of the opinion that the order to curtail our current mission is a reasonable one." He pauses there, waiting for any immediate objections.

No one says a word—until, that is, McCoy pipes up for the collective group, "We're listening, Captain."

Jim relaxes somewhat, recognizing that remark as McCoy's way of reminding him this particular group of men and women already trust his judgment.

To Kirk's right, Commander Spock folds his hands on the tabletop. "The Tuli will not be offended by our early departure."

Across from the table, McCoy chuckles. "What're you saying, Mr. Spock? That they might be glad to be rid of us?"

"Hardly, Doctor," the Vulcan intones. "I merely wished to express my belief that the Tuli will understand our need to attend an emergency situation." He returns his gaze to Kirk. "In fact, were it necessary to ask for their aid, it is highly likely the Tuli would send ships alongside us."

Kirk nods. "I received that impression as well." Which is why he is less concerned than normal about stepping away from a diplomatic excursion; the beings who call themselves the Tuli seem level-headed and are not easily offended.

The captain's thoughts return to the reason their friendly interactions with that race must come to an abrupt end. With a renewed sense of urgency, Kirk leans forward, diving right into the details of the mission. "Ever heard of the Mortifer Clan?"

Scott hisses between his teeth before declaring fiercely, "They'd better not look twice at _my_ ship!" He is the first—and only—person to react.

Even though Jim does readily echo that sentiment, he is also a touch amused, particularly by the way everyone else makes a close study of Scott's fired-up expression.

Spock turns to Jim again. "Captain, what is the Mortifer Clan?"

Jim releases a breath before explaining. "They specialize in hijacking and capturing ships, anything from tourist crafts to recovered warships."

"And just what ship did they waylay?" his security chief asks grimly.

Giotto's guess is dead-on. Kirk elaborates, "A mining freighter passing through the Rel-7 Port went missing."

McCoy frowns. "Freighter of what? Even a stack of dilithium crystals wouldn't warrant a priority one call."

"No," agrees the captain, "but a delegate from the Miners' Rights Council who was on board at the time does."

Silence encompasses the room.

Jim goes on steadily, "Nothing's confirmed yet, but 'Fleet intelligence has sighted one of Mortifer cruisers in the vicinity around the time the report of the vanished ship was made. It seems there has been an uptick in burglarized crafts at Rel-7. More recently, a threat was made against the MRC, specifying an attack would occur when the Council would least expect one. It's well-known that the faction behind the threat has ties with the Mortifer Clan."

McCoy whistles. "All of which paints a very convincing picture. But wait a minute. Wasn't the Carasia Moon close to shutting down operations just a month ago because of stalled negotiations with the MRC? Those folks must be going crazy!"

Uhura interjects softly, "I hope it wasn't Councillor Blase. I heard he was the voice of reason in convincing the miners to end their strike."

Jim feels his expression turning grave. "Unfortunately, Uhura, Blase is precisely who disappeared, along with his assistant and one of the Moon's envoys. The MRC-Carasian negotiations _aren't_ going to happen unless these men are recovered quickly. At worst, the rioting will start again."

Everyone looks troubled to hear this, as he expected. The last reported clash between the moon workers and their superiors had brought the death tally up to nearly three hundred, not the worst in Federation history but by no means of small concern. Which, thinks Jim, is precisely why Federation officials have been hard at work to employ peace talks, hoping to avoid further casualties.

"When do we leave, Captain?" Spock inquires.

"As soon as I have spoken with the Tuli. We have an advantage on time because we're already close to the locale." Jim looks at each of his officers once more. "Any questions?"

He takes the silence as a positive answer. Rising with the others coming to their feet as well, he says, "Dismissed—except for you, Mr. Spock." Jim comes around the table to stand by the Vulcan. "Spock, do me a favor. See what you can dig up about Starfleet's past encounters with the Mortifer ships, officially _and_ unofficially. I want to know exactly what kind of people we will be dealing with."

Spock locks his hands behind his back. "I will try, sir."

"Thank you." Jim follows Spock into the corridor, not surprised to find McCoy idling outside the door.

The doctor falls into step with them. "Jim, I have a question."

"I'm listening."

McCoy catches his arm, bringing Kirk to a stop. "Whose side are we on?"

Jim's tone sharpens. "What do you mean?"

"It's not easy to be impartial in a fight," McCoy says. "And I know it's not supposed to be _our_ fight, but there've been plenty of times we were ordered into a situation without being fully aware of who sent us or _why_."

Jim's mouth forms a thin line as he realizes what McCoy is driving at. "We have a duty to promote and protect unity and goodwill. That includes stopping anyone who wants the opposite—which is why _I_ accepted this assignment."

McCoy considers Kirk for a moment, then glances to Spock, whose expression reveals nothing of his opinion. "I know you want to do the right thing, Jim… but sometimes good intentions in the wrong hands still paves a path to hell." He holds his captain's gaze. "Do you know whose hands we will be in?"

Jim lifts his hands, palms up. "Mine."

McCoy's frame drops a fraction.

Jim reaches out to grasp his friend's shoulders. "Bones, I know why you're concerned. You don't want to influence the outcome of this issue with the miners… because if either side gets hurt—" Jim swallows at the thought. "—we could be responsible."

"I don't want us to be pawns, either," McCoy says softly.

"I'll make sure we aren't," Kirk promises.

After a moment, the doctor nods. "All right."

Kirk gives the man's shoulders a brief squeeze before letting go. Then he smiles. "If you don't have to return to Sickbay right away, would you accompany me to my quarters?"

McCoy raises an eyebrow, asking with almost warm-sounding caution, "Why?"

"To help me figure out what to say to the Tuli leader." Jim's smile reaches his eyes, then. "He seems to like _you_."

McCoy huffs, his gaze shining now too. "I knew it. That's a man with good taste." He looks to their third and silent companion. "You could take notes from those Tuli, Mr. Spock."

The commander blinks and very promptly pivots away.

Kirk and McCoy watch Spock proceed along the corridor without them. "You need to stop teasing him," Jim says.

"Uh huh," counters his friend, grinning. "You just let me know when you really mean that, Captain." With a friendly pat to Kirk's arm, McCoy takes off first, leaving Jim to catch up to him.


	2. Part One

**Well, before you start asking what happened, there was a misconception on my part. Apparently holiday time does not mean more writing time. That, and once I started to outline the plot points of this story, I realized I needed double my vacation to get our characters somewhere meaningful. Apologies. I do think, though, this is going to be a fun ride, so hang in there!**

* * *

 **Part One**

The commanding officer of the _Revenant_ cuts a regal figure with one booted foot propped against the balcony's railing and his right hand resting on the pommel of an old-fashioned pistol. His cape and long coat are gone, displaying a sleeveless waistcoat and a black cravat knotted around a high-collared silk shirt. Beneath thick brows, his dark eyes gleam with calculation, belying an outward appearance of bored tolerance. He has many titles: the Master of Trappers, Commandant of the Bloodfury, and Clan Lord, the revered Mortifer himself. The title which suits him best can change on a whim.

Below the balcony and under Mortifer's rule, hard-eyed helmsmen and weapons experts are busily inspecting the bridge's upgraded system. An occasional brawl breaks out over a station, causing taunts and cheers when it turns bloody. Moor (the Clan Lord's true name rather than his reinvented one) never intervenes and afterward ignores the wounded who drag themselves off to the medical bay in favor of ordering the others back to work.

At length, he becomes aware of someone's approach, the staccato click of booted heels separating itself from the noise of the melee on the lower deck. The old man, Kolb, is one of the _Revenant_ 's last faithful subcommanders. His oil-stained jacket has a single ranking stripe melded to the collar and the Clan insignia of two long rifles crisscrossed at the barrels on the left breast. Kolb's limping stride falters when his captain turns to face him.

"Spit it out, Kolb," Moor snaps, annoyed enough by the old man's bland expression to forget his facade as a bored overlord.

Kolb tries to straighten up to give his report but clearly his knobby spine will not allow for it. "Subspace transmission arrived from Rel-7, sir. Starfleet sent a ship."

"Which one?"

"Her flagship, the _Enterprise_."

The gleam in Moor's eyes changes to a deadly glint. "Madness is the foolish man's fate. How long before my ship is repaired?"

"The lead engineer says another five standard days, Master."

Moor's fingers tighten around his pistol. "Then find a new lead engineer. I want this ship at Rel-7 in three days."

The subcommander simply nods and makes a hunched bow before hastening away. In the bowels of the ship, he will relay the Master's new orders and make an example of the unlucky crewman who failed to meet the Mortifer Clan standards.

Moor's smile is fleeting and full of teeth. He returns to watching the scuffles among his new bridge crew. They must last longer than their predecessors so that the _Revenant_ and her Master can avenge themselves.

Remembering the Garde's betrayal makes his blood boil. He tears his pistol out of its holster and shoots the man who instigated most of the brawls. The men in the vicinity jump back and scatter; then as one unit, the crew minus their dead compatriot turn their shocked stares up to the balcony.

"Get that body out of my sight," Moor orders, returning his pistol to his side again. "And back to work!"

Yes, the destruction of the _Enterprise_ , he vows, will be his first act of revenge.

* * *

"Anyone home?" Leonard McCoy calls, crossing the threshold into a large, extremely cluttered room.

"Doctor!" comes the cry from around a tall stack of storage bins. The owner of the voice, head of Engineering and one of the only officers on the ship closest to McCoy's age, appears shortly thereafter, a clear bag of spare parts of some kind in one hand and a tool in the other. He sets the tool down on a nearby desk and uncovers a chair that was hidden beneath several pairs of grey coveralls. He pats the chair's top rung. "Have a seat. I'll admit, I'm surprised to see ye."

Taking a seat, McCoy smiles knowingly. "Thought I'd be on the port station, didn't you?"

Montgomery Scott points out with obvious amusement, "I do seem to recall seeing your name on the mission roster."

The doctor flaps a hand. "Bah. Jim doesn't need me with him every time. He took Spock. They'll be fine."

"Well then." Scott mimes lifting a glass in a toast. "To the adventures we _don't_ have to go on."

Leonard breaks into a grin. "Here, here!"

Scott turns away, muttering, "Hold on, I might have something we can use for a real celebration."

Crossing one knee over the other, McCoy watches the man pull open one cabinet door after another, rummaging through shelves stuffed with assorted odds and ends. Eventually the engineer comes up with an empty jar and, oddly, a champagne flute.

"Do I want to know why you have one of these?" the doctor asks as he accepts the flute.

Scott shakes dust from the jar and proceeds to wipe it out with his shirttail. "Probably from one of those fancy dinners we have to attend every now and then. In the morning, I usually wake up doun here with a bunch of empty glasses. Never can remember why."

McCoy shakes his head slowly but makes no comment.

Scott's eyebrows fly up as a grin stretches his face. With a cluck of his tongue, he announces, "And now for the best part!"

When the man produces a brown-tinted, stoppered bottle, Leonard's eyes sparkle. "I sure hope that's what I think it is." Once his glass is filled and McCoy has had a sip to confirm his suspicion, he drawls, "Why, Mr. Scott, you do know how to throw a _fine_ party."

The Chief Engineer touches the side of his nose and winks. "Just a little secret between friends."

McCoy holds out his flute so his companion can refill it. "Of course—and a much-appreciated gift."

"I'll drink to that," says Scott, and does.

* * *

Kirk crosses his arms and leans against the wall in the tiny office belonging to Chief Inspector Brams of Rel-7. Small and uncomfortable, it barely accommodates Kirk and Brams, let alone the two other people in the room.

Brams is watching his visitors with open distrust. Unfortunately, there is no other authority figure available for Kirk to deal with, as the inspector is the highest-ranking officer on the station, lately elevated in status since Brams's superior—and the man Jim was initially under the impression he would meet—was relieved of command for negligence in adhering to port security protocol. Jim is trying hard to keep his expression neutral, though he already feels a similar distrust to Brams's. He arrived on Rel-7, at first finding the station's sounds and vibrations similar to a starship's, only lower-pitched and distant. Yet the sounds, coupled with the tense atmosphere and wary looks thrown his way, quickly made him uneasy. Even now, Kirk's uneasiness refuses to dissipate, and in fact, has started an itch of warning at the back of his neck in the past half hour. Something seems wrong.

"What should I make of Starfleet's interest?" Inspector Brams is saying to Kirk and his first officer cautiously. "Our situation hardly warrants the involvement of a third party."

Reminding himself not to be so easily offended, Jim explains, "Starfleet has been working closely with both sides of the MRC-Carasian negotiations. Our duty to ensure peaceful relations among members of the Federation has never allowed us to remain far removed from current events in any way."

"So you choose to exercise your authority on _my_ station?"

The captain straightens away from the wall. "Inspector, I didn't come to plead a case with you. I have orders to be here—orders your commanding officer was aware of and accepted without question."

Brams leans back in his chair. "That was his problem. He never asked questions. I do."

 _Clearly_ , thinks Jim with a touch of sourness, then rallies himself after exchanging a quick glance with Spock. "If you have a grievance, take it up with Starfleet Command. Until we hear differently, my men and I will proceed with the investigation as planned." He tips his head to the man beside him. "Mr. Spock is here to collect what data you have."

"I can see you're going to be a difficult man, Mr. Kirk."

Jim stiffens. " _Captain_ Kirk."

"Captain Kirk," Brams amends almost lazily. Then his gaze transfers to the person behind his chair who hasn't moved or spoken since introductions were made. "I suppose a tour of our computer lab couldn't hurt. Rima, show Mr. Spock where we work."

"To my captain's point," Spock intercedes, "we are not here at our leisure. I require access to your port's records, not a tour, Inspector."

Brams's entire countenance sharpens. "Records? Now some of that _is_ proprietary information—data not even Starfleet is lawfully authorized to view." He focuses on Kirk. "You wouldn't have an ulterior motive for your investigation, would you, Kirk?"

Jim can no longer take the inspector's accusations in stride. "That's insulting," he snaps. "We're not spies or thieves."

Brams smiles, then, a thin-lipped affair. "No, I guess not. You're only here to catch them."

"Spock," Jim orders, turning for the door, "with me. We'll find our own way."

The man folds his arms over his chest, only saying once Kirk and Spock reach the office's threshold, causing its door to slide open, "My officer will accompany you—and grant the access you need."

Facing the hallway and his two startled security officers standing guard outside the door, Kirk closes his eyes for a brief moment, working to regain the leash on his temper. But his "Thank you" as he turns back to Brams sounds as forced as it feels.

Brams makes no attempt at civility, stating instead, "I don't take my position lightly, Captain. I'll be watching you."

A muscle jumps Kirk's cheek, but he nods, acknowledging the warning—and offers somewhat rashly, "We welcome it." Then he strides from the office with Spock at his side. His security officers fall into step behind them, and Brams's junior officer reluctantly trails in their wake.

Almost immediately, now that he is moving again instead of stuck in an argument inside that cramped office, a sense of relief floods through Kirk. Some minutes later, he says softly, regretfully, "That could have gone better."

"Affirmative. Though perhaps it is not my place to say this, I find the inspector's disregard for our offer to assist in his investigation appalling—and most illogical."

"Some men are suspicious by nature."

" _Or have something to hide,_ " mutters one of the officers behind them.

Kirk sighs, finding it both gratifying and unfortunate that he isn't the only one thinking along similar lines. Then a thought occurs to him. He admits to Spock, "I know we're in the business of mediation, but perhaps we need a mediator of our own. I should have insisted McCoy come with us."

Spock stops walking. So do the other men, one of the officers flushing, quick to grab his confused-looking partner's shoulder and turn them both around to offer some pretense of privacy. Rima stops too, frowning at the lot of them.

Kirk suppresses a smile. Lieutenants Niraula and Connock cannot see it, and Spock wouldn't understand his amusement.

In fact, Spock is already in the midst of advising his captain with an air of gravity: "That may not be the wisest course of action. Dr. McCoy tends toward highly emotional responses."

The smile breaks through despite Jim's best efforts. "That's exactly why Bones is our best bet to handle these difficult individuals, Mr. Spock. Do you think the chief inspector would have been able to say no to _him_?"

The agreement is slow in coming and, if Kirk didn't know better, accompanied by the slightest of sighs. "Very well," relents the Vulcan. "I will contact the ship."

Kirk would love to be a fly on the wall for that conversation but unfortunately, duty calls him elsewhere. "Can you handle the lab? One of us needs to take a look at the docking sector."

"Affirmative."

"Lt. Niraula, please accompany Mr. Spock. Check in with the ship on the hour. Lt. Connock and I will do the same."

"Yes, sir," the lieutenants say in unison, facing Kirk and Spock once again. Then Connock says something quietly to his partner before giving the man a cheerful little push towards the Vulcan.

Kirk offers Spock and Niraula a one-handed dismissal, then, and calls up a mental image of Rel-7's layout which he made certain to study carefully. Take the left turn at the fork in the corridor, he decides. Lt. Connock catches up to him while double-checking the phaser and communicator clipped to his belt.

Glancing back only once, Kirk notes the female inspector has paused indecisively at the corridor junction. Eventually she chooses to follow Spock.

* * *

The concourse is like any other interstellar station, with rows of shops along a thoroughfare and a mix of artificial and real foliage to delight the eyes scattered throughout. There is an enormous amount of foot traffic, dozens of different alien races shopping, eating, and sometimes arguing along with various human races. The port ring that encircles the heart of the concourse is even busier, packed with dock workers and crewmen coming and going from the ships that float on invisible tethers just off each pier.

Neither workers or crew seem perturbed to see a Starfleet officer prowling the gangways. They treat Kirk like he's not there, offering vague, unhelpful answers when he manages to corner one of them with his questions. No doubt, Brams has already spread the word among his men not to hinder the investigation, but also not to encourage it.

When Lt. Connock's frustration begins to show at their lack of progress, Kirk sends him ahead to locate the sector of the ring where the missing freighter, the _Calypso_ , had been docked to off-load cargo and pick up new passengers.

Once alone, Kirk discovers some of the ship captains are far more willing to talk. He soon finds himself ensconced with a particularly garrulous man named Tobias, self-proclaimed to be the most famous trader in exotic wares (and after seeing a sample of such wares, Jim is of the opinion that description is a bit exaggerated). He comes to learn that this captain also has a penchant for rumors rather than hard facts.

"So you see, Captain Kirk," the excited fellow explains, his enthusiasm nearly making him breathless, "I didn't _know_ that freighter captain personally but I _heard_ he gambled everything he owned to the portmaster, including those unfortunate souls aboard his vessel!"

Kirk manages to tamp down on his surprise. "You're saying he sold his crew and passengers into slavery?"

The trader jerks back with a gasp and wide eyes. "No, why, no! Slavery is a foul, foul trade! I would not stand for such a thing if I knew of it!"

Kirk fears this confusing conversation is never going to end. "Then what are you proposing happened to the _Calypso_?"

"Clearly that captain threw away his livelihood and had no money to pay his people and therefore had to turn them all out here!"

Jim looks at his surroundings doubtfully. "Where would they go?"

The man flaps his hand. "Another ship, perhaps. Maybe they've gone into hiding inside the concourse. It happens more often than you think. What better way to disappear from your troubles than to become another person entirely?" Before Kirk can reply to that, the trader latches onto his arm and says, "Speaking of new identities, have I shown you my best-selling elixir?" He waves his hand over Kirk's face. "It gives one a brand-new perspective on life—quite literally, Captain! You won't recognize your face!"

"I like my face the way it is," Jim says gravely. Then, because something about this man has been niggling at him since they met, he remarks, "You seem… familiar."

"Ah yes," the man agrees amiably, seeming not too upset at failing to make a sale, "that would be my cousin—yes, my cousin whom I am told I very much look and sound like—he knows _you_ , Captain Kirk. Oh but he did talk a lot about you! And here I am lucky enough to meet the very excellent Kirk in person!" He lets Jim go, looking expectant.

 _Oh no._ Jim aborts a drawn breath. "Your cousin… Would his name happen to be Cyrano Jones?"

"That's him!" cries Jones's beaming relative. "Finally, we are properly introduced." He pumps the captain's hand all over again.

Swallowing a sigh, Kirk thinks, _I might have known._ He surveys the ship in stasis with a brand-new perspective not requiring the use of an elixir. "You wouldn't happen to trade in tribbles, would you?" he asks grimly.

The man appears taken back. "Captain, of course _not_. Cyrano has his business, and I, mine. We are family, not competitors, my good fellow."

Jim has heard more than enough. He thanks the trader for his time and information and backs down the ramp at a pace that cannot quite be labeled running away. The man calls after him, "Do not forget, Captain Kirk! I, the great Tobias Jones, am always at your service!"

Farther along the gangway, Kirk's communicator beeps. He flips it open. "Kirk here."

It's Connock. "Captain, I found the place. Pier two-seventeen."

"On my way, Lieutenant."

Kirk closes the device, reads the nearest overhead sign, and points himself in the correct direction.

* * *

Lieutenant Niraula doesn't know why Kirk sent him with Mr. Spock. Connock would have been a far better choice. At least the Vulcan _talks_ to the younger officer, though truthfully there is little choice in the matter since Rom chatters so much that even a man of little words like Mr. Spock recognizes the need to divert the deluge of words on occasion or have his sanity drowned by them.

But Niraula doesn't like to talk, not since a very young age, and in the presence of someone who prefers ship's business to any kind of friendly overture makes him feel like he's stuck in a world of his own.

That does give him time to gauge the threat posed by the lab personnel, none of whom will return his stare of suspicion.

"That is our central computer, Commander," their appointed guide is saying to Mr. Spock, indicating a station at the end of the lab.

Niraula turns his attention to her, wondering why she isn't as ill-mannered as her boss. Rima catches him looking and meets his gaze with an impassive one of her own.

His hand twitches at his side, missing the weight of some kind of weapon. But he doesn't draw his phaser on anyone. Mr. Spock wouldn't stand for it, and neither would Giotto if the man found out. The Chief of Security has spent years drumming into his officers' heads that a perceived threat is not the same thing as a certain threat, and overreactions can do more harm than good. _Kirk will try to defuse the situation first,_ Giotto always reminds them. _We have a right to defend ourselves, but not to act like bullies._

Sighing through his nose, Niraula forces his hand to relax. Rima seems to sense him changing his mind. Some of the tension leaves her stance, and she leads the Starfleet officers to a pair of chairs by the central computer's console.

Niraula positions himself to the side of Mr. Spock, who takes a seat next to the junior inspector. Facing the other occupants of the room, he folds his arms across his chest and plants his feet wide.

"I will give you access to the database now," Rima informs them with unusual levity.

An unsettling feeling, like a voice whispering a warning in his ear, crawls across Niraula's shoulders. Is that a hint of regret he heard in the woman's voice?

It doesn't matter. In his experience, a situation can shift from safe to dangerous in a heartbeat. It's his job to be prepared for that. Whether Mr. Spock talks to him or not, whether these odd people acknowledge his presence or not, he will perform his duty to the utmost of his ability.

Rom had said to him earlier, _Don't frown like that, Tyee. Mr. Spock is certain to discover something interesting. Then the Captain and I will be back with you guys in no time!_

What had Rom been going on about? Niraula doesn't want interesting. He wants uneventful. He wants one of Kirk or Spock to figure out what happened to the _Calypso_ without a life-threatening situation occurring for once.

After all, no one in his right mind courts disaster.

And that, of course, would be why Tyee Niraula's stomach drops sometime later as Kirk's first officer inhales louder than usual and utters, "Interesting."

Rima, who had wandered off while Spock began his data review to engage others in the lab in a hushed tone, thankfully hasn't heard that remark yet.

Niraula asks the commander cautiously, "Have you found something, sir?"

Spock twists at the waist to look past Niraula to Rima and her team for a moment. When his gaze returns to Tyee, his expression is unreadable, his tone measured. "I believe so, Lieutenant. I suggest we locate Captain Kirk as quickly as possible—and discreetly."

Discretion, Niraula comes to learn soon thereafter, is difficult to pull off when an entire space station is on your enemy's side.

* * *

"And that's why my mother named me Romanus," Lt. Connock finishes brightly. "It was a tough name to bear as a kid. The teasing was just endless. I stick to Rom now. Easier for all parties involved."

"I imagine so," Kirk agrees, more amazed that he has just learned this young man's life story in a matter of minutes than, as Connock insists, that they both have Latin-based names in common. Did he ever talk so fast—or so much—at Connock's age? Better to return both their minds to present day. "Lieutenant, what was the name of the bar the _Calypso_ 's captain frequented while he was here?"

Connock activates the padd in his hand, scrolling through a transaction log associated with the _Calypso_ 's account while Kirk looks on. "The name was—"

"Finally!" interrupts a familiar, annoyed voice, causing both men to look around them. "What's the point in asking me to beam down if nobody's at the coordinates?"

Kirk's mood lightens instantly. "Bones, you made it."

"Of course I did." Dr. McCoy's look of annoyance deepens a moment before vanishing altogether as the man looks up and down the gangway. "Well. Where is he?"

"Who?" Jim says, then answers himself. "Spock?"

"Yes, Spock." McCoy folds his arms over his chest. "He gave me some vague nonsense about pestering people. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought he was asking me to come down and pester _him_."

Kirk chokes on a laugh. "Someday, Bones. We'll get there."

Connock is grinning. The doctor gives them both a strange look. Then that look is replaced by something more sheepish. "Sorry, I woulda been here sooner, but I had a project to finish."

Jim blinks.

"A project in Engineering," the man goes on to mutter before clearing his throat.

Kirk makes a mental note to ask about the nature of that project later. If it makes McCoy nervous to mention it, it's definitely something of interest to Jim. "I left Spock to investigate the port records," he says, leading their small party from the outlook post of the gangway to the next level that circles back to the main concourse.

McCoy falls into step with him with Connock bringing up the rear. "Ah, computer research. Vulcans love that."

Amusement touches Kirk's face, there and gone. "Truer words never spoken. Let's see what our Vulcan found out."

"Sounds good to me. On the way, you can tell me about these folks I'm here to straighten out."

He claps a hand to the man's shoulder. "That's the spirit."

The doctor's smile is fleeting but genuine. "Glad to be of some help."

"I can't do without you," Kirk returns warmly. "Remind me of that next time I entertain the idea of leaving you behind."

His companion snorts but says, "Whatever suits you, Captain."

And the three men go on.

* * *

In Rel-7's deserted lab, Kirk's uneasiness returns to choke him. He flips open his communicator and dials the sub-channel always used by the ground team. "Kirk to Spock." Then, following a lack of response, he tries, "Kirk to Niraula."

When no reply to either summons appears to be forthcoming, McCoy stops his curiosity-driven touring of the lab and returns to Kirk's side, followed by their wide-eyed security lieutenant now fumbling with his own communicator, calling, "Connock to Niraula. Tyee, it's Rom. Are you there?"

Kirk says, "Connock."

"Yes, sir."

"When's the last time you exchanged a report with Niraula?"

"He called to confirm that he and Mr. Spock reached the computer lab," Connock answers. "I did the same when we arrived at the piers."

Grimly Jim tries to reach the officers once more, to no avail. After a tense second or two, he switches the device's channel. "Kirk to Enterprise."

Uhura answers the call. "This is the Enterprise. We read you, Captain."

"I need the time and coordinates of Mr. Spock and Mr. Niraula's last report-ins, Lieutenant."

The communications officer responds, brisk and businesslike, "They coincide. Time, eleven hundred hours precisely. Coordinates—the same as your coordinates now, Captain."

"Is Spock's communicator signal active? Where is it?"

"Yes, it is, and at the beaming point, sir. I'm showing Lt. Niraula's—" She makes a small gasp. "—as inactive. Just now. As if someone…"

She doesn't finish that statement, but Kirk can finish it for her. "Destroyed the device." He meets McCoy's alarmed gaze before asking his final question. "Do you have their biosignatures, Uhura?"

The doctor inhales softly and takes the medical tricorder slung across his torso into his hands.

Uhura returns. "I do have them, sir. Showing the same coordinates as your entry point."

"Thank you, Uhura. Report to me immediately if any information changes. Kirk out." Jim flips his communicator closed. "Spock must have returned to the Inspection office."

"But he's not answering? And what happened to Niraula's communicator?" McCoy presses his mouth flat. "I don't like it, Jim."

"Neither do I," Connock seconds.

And nor does Kirk. He can think of only a handful of reasons why Spock wouldn't react to a call from his captain—and in his experience, none of those reasons have been attributed to pleasant scenarios. "Phasers set to stun," he tells McCoy and Connock.

The doctor trades the tricorder for a phaser. "Good thing Giotto won't let anyone come down without one."

That's just one of the many reasons that Kirk feels Giotto is perfect in his position as head of Security. "Let's go," he says, his uneasiness finally becoming stronger, close to fear when he thinks of the men he cannot contact. He turns, leading the way from the lab.

Wordlessly, McCoy and Connock follow their captain.


	3. Part Two

**Part Two**

Moor's ambition started small. At the cusp of young adulthood, he was taken onto a mid-size ship that had once been a planetary patrol cruiser and made to work as one of the nameless crewmen (engine brats, they were called, before he banned the name) for the majority of each solar cycle. The only part of that vessel he secretly considered his was a sleeping bunk, a cot barely wide enough to accommodate a growing man, no matter how bone-thin. Crew quarters were communal for the engine brats and often overrun by the lowest-ranking gulley officers such that many of them were forced into crawlspaces and engine tubes instead—but that bunk was entirely Moor's. It only took a handful of wild, violent fits using his innate talent for destruction to make his point. The other men called him mad and brain-damaged, but soon enough they learned to leave that bit of space free for him; otherwise they had to endure the temper of a vicious little engine brat who excelled at decimating their numbers while none of the superiors appeared inclined to care.

During the short daily reprieve from the mindless clicking and clacking Moor did with his tools (always, it seemed, repairing the same pieces of the ship over and over again), he thought of what actually needed to be done to take the overused parts and make them strong again, from the bulkheads supporting the hull down to the intricate engine gears. And as his fondness grew for the old ship, the angrier Moor became that her innards continued to waste away to scraps even a junkmaster would refuse. He thought of what _he_ might do if he wasn't simply an engine brat. Driven by his passion, he tried to explain his ideas to the subcommander overseeing the section of crew he belonged to; but that grisly old man laughed in Moor's face and cuffed his ear, told him brats weren't allowed ideas and those who do were destined for an airlock. Moor understood then that no one but him cared about their home the way he did. So, the brat with 'ideas' reasoned, he would have her for himself. Refitted with all the best parts the galaxy had to offer, he would sail her among the stars so that other ships—other _captains_ —would see in his ship what they lacked.

The thought was simpler than the deed, of course. It took years for Moor to be noticed as something other than a slave, even the cunning and deadly type; then he had to rise among the ranks, eventually crafting the mutiny to bring his dream to fruition. When the dream finally happened, Moor took those last steps across a silent bridge as the ship's captain. He gave her a name to reflect the hardships they were born from, and she became the _Revenant_.

The Clan was born shortly thereafter, and within a decade, Captain Moor (known as Mortifer) had a fleet manned by loyal subcaptains, all his Clansmen by rebirth and bound in blood-oath to him, their Lord.

But now with his hard-won position encroaching on its twentieth year, the captain of the _Revenant_ reflects bitterly, he has anarchy. Some of the Clan have tried to dissent and forced him to destroy ship and crew utterly; others whine incessantly that the profits of hijacking and privateering are too little—or never reflect their just shares. The tipping point comes at last when the Garde, an intergalactic affiliation of discrete, wealthy individuals with gray morals and the Mortifer Clan's primary source of income, revokes a years-long partnership on a whim.

And furious though he may be, Moor realizes he has no leverage to overturn the Garde's decision.

None, that is, except his knowledge of the final commission, a 'transfer of property' which had been handed over to an unheard-of team of spacers hoping to edge in on the game dominated by the Mortifer Clan.

Moor hates being made a fool in front of his Clansmen. And he will _not_ have his reputation or the ability to retain his autonomy called into question over the fickleness of a few high-handed capitalists. No, he simply won't be retired before his time. He would rather die.

And so Moor bides his time while he schemes. Then he hears of the _Enterprise_ on her way to Rel-7, and suddenly his latest dream is close to becoming reality. All he needs to do is remind those who betrayed him, who lost faith and broke trust, why the Mortifer Clan should always be feared.

* * *

Kirk doesn't wait for an invitation or an announcement, simply barrels into the Chief Inspector's office like a man on a Priority One mission—which, in a sense, is what this current situation amounts to, thinks Leonard McCoy. When Uhura contacted Jim a few minutes ago to express concern that Spock and Niraula's biosignatures had suddenly become untrackable, even Leonard experienced a heart-stopping moment of thinking the worst had occurred.

But after subsequent detail from the communications officer, it appears wherever the two officers have found themselves, something is interfering with the _Enterprise_ 's ability to identify their location. The biosignatures still exist ( _Spock is alive, thank god_ ) but the coordinates transmitting from the station are scrambled. Uhura needs time to develop the right algorithm to decode the information.

Only Spock, Leonard decides, now wavering between worried and nonplussed at being worried, would wind up in the one place on the port engineered to mask his presence.

That doesn't mean Kirk is taking this new development well. In fact, while Jim heads off to do battle with the port commander, McCoy has officially placed himself on damage control duty for the foreseeable future. It's definitely not how he imagined spending his time when Spock commed him, asking him to beam down.

The man inside the small office is and isn't what McCoy expects: Brams is younger in age than his initial guess by a few decades, but the fellow does look as arrogant and uncooperative as Jim described him. It's when Brams openly allows them to see his dismay at their sudden appearance that McCoy takes an instant disliking to him.

"Captain Kirk," the Chief Inspector begins, "I wasn't expecting you."

Jim has always been one to cut to the chase. "Mr. Spock isn't answering comms," he tells Brams. "Neither is the lieutenant with him. Where are they?"

The Chief Inspector falls silent for a short time, exchanging a look with a young woman in uniform standing to his right. McCoy studies her even more carefully than the head of Inspection, because something about the woman seems off to him. She isn't nervous at all, being faced with a visibly furious James T. Kirk, and she should be given that Kirk's men were last in her care.

"Obviously your Mr. Spock isn't here, Captain." Brams waves a hand to encompass the length of his office, as if daring them to argue the point.

McCoy presses his mouth into a thin line. "He should be—or at least we should be able to contact him. And you didn't answer my captain."

Brams's gaze narrows, fixing on him. "Who are you?"

"Dr. Leonard McCoy, Chief Medical Officer aboard the _Enterprise_."

Brams gives him the oddest look, then. No doubt, the man must be attempting to work out why, of all the staff available, the senior-most medical officer of the flagship would come down to Rel-7. McCoy could answer that readily enough, advising the man not to bother working out Kirk's thinking as he himself long ago gave up trying to understand why Jim does what he does, but Leonard is not feeling friendly enough to take pity on him.

Damn it, that worry keeps nettling him. The sooner they find Spock and Niraula, the better.

Kirk stalks slowly toward the inspector. "I think you know something, Brams. Why else would my officers' communicator signals originate from _here_?"

The tension in the room is palpable enough to choke a man, Leonard feels. He watches as Brams finally relents in his staring contest with Kirk to reach for a drawer of a desk shoved into a corner. Next to McCoy, Lt. Connock shifts nervously on his feet. In response, Leonard tightens his grip on his phaser, though he prays there will be no reason to use it.

A moment later, Kirk freezes, and McCoy sees why. The item Brams had retrieved is a Starfleet-issued communicator.

Kirk snatches the device from the inspector's hand just as a chill slides down McCoy's spine. Then, wordlessly, Brams removes a second communicator from the open desk drawer—this one smashed, missing its cover. McCoy and Connock—even Kirk—just stare at it. No one takes it from Brams.

The two inspectors trade another look before Brams says, "Rima brought your communicators to me—and reported what happened."

"…Happened?" Kirk repeats after a heartbeat, to McCoy looking like a man expecting to receive the date of his execution. Then, per usual the moment of weakness is gone. Jim has collected himself enough to demand as a captain, "Explain."

McCoy moves closer to his captain's side, just in case the explanation is a painful one.

"Your men left the lab," the inspector says without preamble, "while my officer was otherwise occupied."

"On their own?" challenges Kirk, voice notably razor-edged. In other words, he doesn't buy that they just disappeared because they wanted to—and neither does McCoy.

"Don't insult me, Kirk. They gave Rima the slip." Brams's tone hardens too. "Which makes me wonder, was that part of your plan all along?"

McCoy jumps in, "You've got some nerve! We've been up-front with you about our mission from the beginning, and what do we get for our trouble? Why, you lot of ungrateful—you could at least offer to help us! We've lost two people!"

"Bones," Kirk interrupts, a glint of amusement covering deep anger.

McCoy turns his glare on his captain, but Jim just looks at him until he subsides.

Then Jim turns back to Brams. "We accept that you don't trust us or our intentions. Consider the feeling mutual. However, that doesn't negate the fact I now have two missing parties to account for—and your neck is on the line for one of them, Inspector. Make no mistake about _that_."

Brams slowly releases a breath. "You really don't know where they are."

A muscle spasms in Kirk's jaw. "No, I don't." His gaze transfers to Rima. "So tell me everything you can concerning the last time you saw Cmdr. Spock and Lt. Niraula."

"I know little, Captain," the junior inspector insists. "One minute they were in the lab, the next gone."

Kirk's mouth flattens to an unhappy line. "Then you force my hand. I'll have to lock-down Rel-7."

Brams argues, "You can't do that."

"I could if I have probable cause."

 _Good for you, Jim!_ cheers McCoy.

Brams likely has no idea whether or not Kirk has the clout to do what he claims, but McCoy can see the man at least recognizes the threat for what it is. The standoff between inspector and captain lasts a few seconds more. Then Brams relents.

"Rima, relay my orders to our security team: every guard on or off duty is to cooperate with Captain Kirk and his officers in the recovery of their crew."

It's the junior inspector who stares at her superior now, dismayed. But she says, "Aye, sir," and proceeds from the office without meeting anyone else's gaze.

"Good luck," Brams says to Kirk, then turns his back on their little group in clear dismissal.

Kirk leaves the office first, and the others follow.

* * *

Lt. Connock had thought the atmosphere to be frightfully tense inside the Chief Inspector's office, but somehow it's worse when the three of them are in the corridor alone. Rom looks around for Inspector Rima, decides she made herself scarce on purpose and positions himself closer to a wall to follow suit in a similar manner. If he goes unnoticed, then the Captain and Dr. McCoy can keep their ongoing staring contest between themselves. Even to someone _on_ Kirk and McCoy's side, having the full effect of those intimidating stares on a person can leave him or her with wobbly knees.

It would be nice to have Mr. Spock around, Rom thinks. The Vulcan seems to be one of the few crewmen who can withstand being the subject of such potent human ire without flinching. Then again, if Spock was there, Captain Kirk would be in a far better mood and Dr. McCoy wouldn't look so deeply troubled.

Rom sobers, replaying the unproductive conversation with the Chief Inspector. The situation isn't looking good. He cannot imagine that either Spock or Niraula would purposely upset crewmates like this, let alone their captain. And, to be honest, if Rom was not bound by his oath to follow—and protect—Captain Kirk in every possible circumstance, he would have started the search for Niraula and Spock long before he received his next set of orders.

But surely Kirk won't delay the search much longer? Not when the captain himself is clearly affected by the absence of his men?

The tail-end of some remark from Dr. McCoy breaks Connock's train of thought: "—don't just disappear on a spaceport without good reason. Something reeks," McCoy is saying heatedly, "and I'd bet a month's salary it has to do with that callous bastard, Brams!"

Kirk is unusually slow to respond. "Bones, is it possible Spock had a reason to hide?"

"Anything's possible." McCoy's mix of concern and fury reaches a new pitch. "But, Jim, why wouldn't Spock contact you first? I don't buy a word of what that junior inspector said!"

The captain's gaze drops to his communicator as if wondering the same thing and has a difficult time articulating his thoughts, enough to concern Connock for the first time that the man may be struggling with his own demons. "I don't know. I just don't, Bones… not unless… maybe Spock…?"

The communicator in Kirk's hand comes to life: " _Enterprise to Captain Kirk._ "

Kirk exchanges a quick glance with McCoy before answering. "Kirk here. What is it, Mr. Sulu?"

"Sir, an unidentified ship has appeared within range of Rel-7."

Rom doesn't understand. Why would Mr. Sulu contact them about some ship when Rel-7 is a waystation for them?

Sulu goes on, " _Mr. Scott says—_ " until another voice overlays his, crying, " _It's the Mortifer Clan, Capt'n!_ "

Kirk stiffens. "Are you certain, Mr. Scott?"

" _I'd recognize one of those Clan monstrosities anywhere. Those bastards don't just hijack ships, sir. They take parts off other ships and add 'em to theirs—like the spoils of war or some kind of trophy._ "

Sulu returns. " _We're locked on their signal. Orders?_ "

Kirk says nothing for a moment.

Rom understands why.

Apparently so does McCoy, who steps forward, drawing the captain's attention. "A Clan vessel, Jim. Isn't that part of what we were hoping to find?" When the man simply goes on looking at him, the doctor adds more sharply, "If you let them go, Command won't be happy."

"My head's been on the chopping block before," Kirk argues, his voice unexpectedly wry.

McCoy huffs, but says, "We know that. But it's not just Spock and Niraula at stake, is it? What about those councilmen?"

Kirk's voice softens. "I haven't forgotten."

For no reason Connock can discern, McCoy looks hesitant. Then the doctor says, "I could stay here. Look for Spock and Niraula," and Rom knows why.

Unsurprisingly, one of Kirk's hands curls into a fist. "Denied."

McCoy just looks at Kirk, a _Jim_ unspoken but not unheard.

"I thought you understood my dilemma, Doctor. I already have two missing crewmen. How can you ask me to leave another one behind?"

The senior officer arches an eyebrow. "What would they do to me? I'm just an old country doctor."

An unmoved Kirk counters, "Wearing a Starfleet uniform."

"Elevate M'Benga to Acting CMO," McCoy barrels on. "You've done that before. I'll comm you right away once I find Spock—and check in with Uhura regularly until then."

Rom winces, knowing what he's about to say won't lessen Kirk's unease. "Captain, I can look after Dr. McCoy. Besides, _someone_ has to stay behind to search for Lt. Niraula and Mr. Spock." He releases a breath, uncertain if he's about to be demoted. "It shouldn't be you. The ship needs you, sir."

McCoy rocks back on his heels, looking at Connock warmly. "Couldn't have said it better myself, Lieutenant."

Kirk is silent for a long time but there is no mistaking the almost panicked resignation in his eyes. Even the mighty James Kirk can recognize a lost battle.

McCoy lands the final blow. "Captain, every second we stand here deliberating is a second lost recovering anybody at all, including Spock."

Kirk closes his eyes. When the man opens them again, he lifts his communicator toward his mouth. "I suppose you heard that, Mr. Sulu. One to beam up."

" _Transporter is already on-standby. Awaiting your signal._ "

Kirk faces McCoy and Connock, giving both of them a hard stare. "Gentlemen, take no unnecessary risks."

"Aye, sir," the men chorus together.

"We'll be back for you," the captain adds.

Connock grins.

So does McCoy. "'Course you will. See you later, Jim."

Kirk nods once. "Energize." In the next instant, his form vanishes.

As soon as the man is out of sight, McCoy's shoulders sag. The doctor looks a bit forlorn, and his mutter of "Why do I keep doing this?" reflects that.

Rom wonders what the man is questioning about himself: his penchant for challenging esteemed officers (the _Enterprise_ crew knows McCoy values speaking his mind more than rank) or his inability to stay out of trouble (everybody knows about that too).

McCoy turns to Connock. "Any ideas on where to start?"

The lieutenant considers their options. "Rel-7's concourse is larger than I thought. But I know Tyee, Dr. McCoy. He'd use a crowd to hide in if he could."

"The main thoroughfare it is, then."

McCoy takes out his tricorder as they head in that direction, allowing Connock to lead the way.

Connock glances a couple of times at the doctor in the midst of trying to stay alert to their surroundings. "Can you use that to locate them? Even if the biosignatures are scrambled?"

"Under normal circumstances I couldn't, but we've got something in our favor," McCoy explains. "Mr. Spock."

"But why?" Then Rom thinks about it. "Oh, because he's a Vulcan."

The doctor chuckles. "Let me put it this way: without more advanced tech to hand, someone who doesn't know his quarry well wouldn't be able to tell two Vulcans apart. Or locate a particular human among many, for that matter. But _Spock_ has a hybrid physiology—not purely one species or another." McCoy waggles his medical tricorder in air. "Scrambled signals or not, I know what to look for when I look for _him_."

Rom smiles. "That's good."

McCoy grins back. "Our First Officer likely wouldn't agree with you, Lieutenant. He doesn't appreciate being his own tracking device."

With Dr. McCoy—and Captain Kirk—always being able to find him? Rom kind of gets why the thought might be unappealing.

McCoy stops walking all of a sudden, frowning at the passers-by in the corridor then down at himself. "Jim had a point. We stick out like sore thumbs in these uniforms."

It takes a moment for that remark to sink in. When it does, unadulterated delight rushes through McCoy's companion. "Are you suggesting we go incognito? Yes, sir!" Rom bursts out in his mounting excitement. "Can I pick out our disguises?"

Though McCoy looks at Rom strangely, he waves his hand as tacit permission to _go ahead_.

Connock lengthens his pace down the corridor, declaring for McCoy's benefit, "I know just the place!"

* * *

When Jim steps onto the bridge, no one quite meets his eyes. He often tries to be conscious of the atmosphere he brings with him, but at times it isn't always feasible to quell a sense of urgency or his tense mannerisms. Normally McCoy is the one to call him out, reminding Kirk to stop scaring his crew when it isn't necessary.

But McCoy, like Spock, is not on the _Enterprise_. Kirk's uneasiness deepens, and undoubtedly so does the off-putting expression he has.

As Kirk takes the captain's chair, he places his personal worries aside. "Bring the ship on screen, Mr. Sulu." Monstrosity was a polite description of the vessel that becomes visible on the bridge's main viewer, thinks Kirk a moment later. "Chekov, what's her course look like?"

"Stalled just out of range of the docking ring. She has not changed position since arriving, Keptin. No spacecrafts to or from the ship."

There's a warning at the back of Kirk's neck at Chekov's dubious tone. Like Chekov, he wonders why a Clan ship would simply hang around Rel-7 instead of docking? To meet someone?

And if that ship is aware of their presence, why hasn't it turned tail and run at the mere thought of encountering Starfleet?

 _A challenge, perhaps_. "Hail them," he tells Uhura, wishing briefly Spock was there to advise him before ruthlessly burying the sentiment.

"Hailing frequencies open." Uhura pauses, then reports, hand to her earpiece, "I'm not receiving a response, sir."

If McCoy was there, he would roll his eyes and mutter something like _typical._ Jim's hands tighten on the ends of his armrests.

"Send this message, Lieutenant." Kirk deliberately shifts in his chair, then, crossing one leg over the other in order to lend the impression of nonchalance to whoever might appear on the main viewscreen. "This is Captain James T. Kirk of the starship _Enterprise_. Under special order of Starfleet, I have the authority to neutralize any security threat to the Rel-7 space station. State your intentions, or prepare to be boarded."

The ensuing silence on the bridge is tense. It finally breaks when Uhura states, "I have an incoming transmission. Audio only."

Not good in Kirk's experience. Jim presses his mouth flat, uncrosses his legs to plant both feet firmly on the deck. "Let's hear what they have to say."

" _This is the commanding officer of the Trenchant. We are Clan, and our intentions—_ " The pause in the response is unusually long. " _are hostile._ "

Chekov looks confounded, then hisses between his teeth. Sulu's eyebrows fly up and stay around his hairline.

"That was to the point," Scotty mutters from his station on the upper deck.

Kirk sighs. So, his intuition was right after all. The ship isn't here for Rel-7. This _Trenchant_ wants to engage them. "Shields up," he orders. "Go to Red Alert." Unfortunately, he's backed into a corner. He cannot condone a firefight in range of civilians. "Impulse engines only. Move us away from the port, Mr. Sulu."

As his crew works to fulfill their orders, and Jim feels the ship hum beneath him as her engines come online, he closes his eyes and sends out a silent prayer to those not with him. If there is at least one benevolent deity in the universe, his men will stay safe until he finds out just why the Mortifer Clan is interested in the _Enterprise_ and returns to them.

* * *

Tyee Niraula opens his eyes, realizing when his vision focuses enough to make out a durasteel ceiling above his head, "I'm not dead."

"Obviously."

The singular remark comes somewhere from Niraula's left. The lieutenant turns his head to find the source, shifting to lift himself up slightly on an elbow at the same time—and releases a breath he hadn't been aware of holding.

"You're alive too."

The person in question doesn't spare a glance for Tyee, preoccupied, it seems, with shifting containers one after another into a stack on his opposite side. "We are in one of the cargo holds of the lower subsection of Rel-7," Spock informs his newly awakened companion matter-of-factly. "You have been unconscious for seventeen minutes and thirty-three seconds."

"Are you all right, sir?" Niraula asks, carefully assuming a sitting position when no part of his body protests being moved.

"I am uninjured."

The lieutenant wishes he had a medical tricorder on hand to verify that statement. He doesn't, though, and so trusting Mr. Spock to inform him of a problem is his only option, as he is no fool. Everybody knows about that one time an Engineering ensign had asked Mr. Spock if he could examine him "just in case" following a close call with a collapsing bulkhead and once the trapped crewmen realized the emergency triage team could not immediately reach them. Suffice to say, that poor fellow had learned just how scathing Vulcans can be, even with non-verbal cues. Mr. Spock in particular is sensitive to any kind of breaching of his personal space. Niraula has only ever seen (and heard of) a handful of people allowed that honor—and none of them under casual circumstances barring the captain and, occasionally, Dr. McCoy.

These are not casual circumstances; far from it, in fact. And Niraula wants to enjoy being alive for a while longer.

He starts to come to his feet. "How did we get here? What happened?"

"I brought us here after the attack."

At the word 'attack', he starts to reach for a weapon until the full impact of the sentence brings Niraula up short. "Mr. Spock, you… _carried_ me?"

"You were unconscious, Lieutenant. Carrying you was only logical."

Niraula is unable to keep himself from visualizing his limp body slung over the Vulcan's shoulder like a sack of potatoes. His voice almost cracks from embarrassment. "I—thank you. For saving me."

"Gratitude is unnecessary."

It finally dawns on Niraula why his hand hasn't found his phaser yet. It isn't attached to his belt—nor is his communicator. He closes his eyes briefly, replaying the last moments of the attack.

When his eyes pop open again, he says in a harsher tone than intended, "You knew they would try to stop us from leaving."

The Vulcan pauses in his task, angling his head toward the lieutenant. "It seemed likely."

Niraula comes to his feet, hands fisting. His voice rises a notch, not by much but enough that those who know him would recognize his alarm—and fury. "Mr. Spock, those… _scientists_ were armed."

"As were we, Mr. Niraula."

"Look how well that worked out," he replies bitterly. "We lost our phasers and communicators." _He did._ A security officer should never give up his weapon—to do so was tantamount to failure.

For some reason, Mr. Spock isn't particularly offended by the insubordinate tone. Squatting there among a dozen or so containers that look exactly alike, the Vulcan is staring at Niraula like he's a curiosity.

Niraula doesn't want to be studied. He chokes on his next words, forcing them out nonetheless. "It's clear I was useless to you in a fight. I apologize, Mr. Spock—" His gaze lowers in shame. "—and place myself on notice for reprimand."

"Mr. Niraula," Spock says after a moment of silence, "your emotionalism is uncalled-for—and, I admit, marginally disturbing. Given my numerous encounters with humans, by comparison you seemed less excitable than the majority. I assumed this meant you were also reasonable in your display of emotions."

Niraula stares, thrown by being insulted and complimented in tandem.

"You performed your duties adequately with the information allotted to you," the Vulcan continues. "If an error occurred, the fault would be mine. I did not explain my… plan. Therefore there is no basis to reprimand you."

Niraula swallows, catching the way the hint of something (regret? hesitancy?) in the commander's voice. "What plan?"

"To lose our company." Mr. Spock returns to sorting those containers while Niraula looks on.

That explanation slowly sinks in. "You mean you wanted to force a confrontation so we might escape on our own." _And stupid me got stunned in the process._ His gaze narrows. "Sir, how did you know Inspector Rima wouldn't order her men to shoot to kill?"

"A calculated risk," Spock replies in a manner that, for a Vulcan, is uncharacteristically vague.

It could be that Spock's diligent inspection of a container is distracting him, thinks the lieutenant, but Niraula has the impression Mr. Spock isn't comfortable admitting just how truly risky the plan was. Even to a Vulcan's way of thinking, acting with only semi-favorable odds ought to be called reckless.

Niraula doesn't press the matter, in truth not knowing what he _could_ say. Not that he doesn't have some sense of propriety; a subordinate should not call a superior into question.

Unless it nearly gets him or both of them killed.

He breathes out slowly, approaching Spock with the same carefulness. "You're looking for something. Can I help?"

"Affirmative."

Niraula kneels next to Spock. He's beginning to understand that little of what Mr. Spock does occurs by happenstance. Like why Spock would choose this particular cargo hold to hide in. "Tell me what to do, sir."

Spock dips his head ever-so-slightly, acknowledging the re-establishment of their roles: Spock to lead, and Niraula to follow. "There should be a container with evidence which should assist us in revealing the party behind the threat to the Carasian-MRC negotiations."

 _What kind of evidence?_ Niraula wonders.

The question must be apparent on his face, for Spock supplies, "Titanium ore mined from the Carasian Moon."

Niraula sucks in a breath. "That shouldn't be here."

"Precisely, Lieutenant." Mr. Spock pauses to give him a long stare. "Rel-7 is not part of the governing body for the transport and commercial sale of mineral-based goods. Yet in the inventory databank, I discovered protective packaging materials required for the storing of matter like ore."

Niraula has to sit down, looking at the containers now with a dubious eye. Everything he has heard about the Carasian Moon comes back to him, especially the news articles detailing the contaminated work environment that inevitably led to the miners' strikes and riots. "So we're looking for black-marketed moon ore. And pirates." _And potential exposure to a disease? No thanks._ He doesn't say that last part aloud.

Spock blinks placidly. "Yes, that would appear to be the case."

"Perfect," the security lieutenant murmurs. "So, who's going to tell Captain Kirk?"

Wordlessly, the Vulcan chooses another container and studies its digital lockpad. After another minute, much to his own dismay, Niraula joins the commander in his quest to locate evidence to suggest the authorities on Rel-7 have been up to no good.

* * *

A pair of human males in non-descript uniforms stride along a curved gangway, only slowed at one point by a cart and serviceman uncertain of where to branch off toward a designated receiving area. One of the males has an oddly young face framed by deep lines about the eyes, a puckered scar on his temple, and a mouth worn thin from levity; the other appears barely of an age to grow a beard, solidifying that impression by looking about him with an openly curious stare. Everyone in their lane on the gangway is in a hurry. They move along with the crowd, no different from the rest.

"Welcome to Rel-7," a disembodied voice, that of Rel-7's main computer, calls from above, issuing this standard greeting to all passengers disembarking from the ships currently in stasis. "Please follow the lighted pathways to the Primary Concourse."

At the security checkpoint there, the taller human breaks from the line to approach a security guard standing nearby scrolling through a data padd. His companion hurries to catch him and stays on his heels.

"Can I help you?" the guard asks without looking up from his task, a young spacer who doesn't appear concerned at being approached.

Moor notes that though the guard's voice is courteous, friendly even, but he's nonetheless well-armed. That amuses him. Unfortunately, the newly recruited subcommander he brought with him jumps nervously. The _Revenant_ 's captain pins the idiot with a look of warning before turning his attention back to the guard.

He bares his teeth in a manner that will pass for a smile to the unattentive. "I have an appointment with Commander Weyland."

The spacer's head comes up at that, his facial expression barely registering surprise but his gaze much, much sharper. "Weyland no longer commands this port."

"I see," Moor responds lightly. "I was not aware. Who has taken his place?"

"The Chief Inspector is running operations." Shifting his device to not-so-subtly scan Moor for an identity, the guard turns a critical eye onto the subcommander. "You need directions to the Inspection office?"

Moor brushes an invisible speck of dirt from his shoulder when the scanning finishes and the padd doesn't raise an alarm. "Negative, Officer. We know the way. Thank you, you've been… most helpful."

Once they are safely through the checkpoint, the subcommander catches Moor's sleeve. "What do we do about Weyland, Master?"

Disgusted, Moor pulls his sleeve out of the man's grasp. If only he had his pistol… He turns to the survey the foot traffic. "Quiet, Flint. I'm thinking."

"Flinch, Master." True to his name, Flinch flinches at his captain's scathing look.

There are beings of every size and shape on the concourse, with the occasional cluster of humans dressed in civilian clothing or branded worker's coveralls. Moor spies no Clansmen among the crowds, which means they have likely tucked into some bar-lounge or entertainment facility, wasting credits until the designated signal comes.

Flinch doesn't seem to have any sense, breaking orders almost immediately by nattering on about Weyland. "But if the commander is gone, who'll pay the debt, Master? How do we access the—"

Moor grabs the idiot by the throat without thinking, prepared to just squeeze his throat until talking for the next several hours is an impossibility. But movement in the corner of his eye catches his attention—and a security guard turning in their direction. He drops the subcommander back to his feet and, forcing his posture to relax, puts his back to Flinch's gasps for air. Moor's right hand slides to the band around his left wrist, the only reason he made it this far into the port without using force. A gift, courtesy of Weyland. What did the fool do to have himself removed from duty?

Or is the dismissal a result of the Garde tying up loose ends?

"We shall figure things out as we need to," he promises, more so to himself than to his watery-eyed but now blissfully silent subcommander. "While the _Enterprise_ chases our sister ship, the _Trenchant_ , through the sector, we will take back what is rightfully ours." _And bring this pathetic port to its knees in the process,_ he doesn't need to add.

Betrayal leaves a bitter aftertaste in one's mouth. But Moor smiles, genuine and broad this time, at the thought of being rid of it once and for all.

With, more or less, several individuals along the way.


	4. Part Three

**Part Three**

As Leonard McCoy stares down at himself, he releases a mighty puff of air, surveying his new attire with the same dubiousness with which he normally does a transporter or a shuttlecraft.

His companion, however, is positively beaming. "Don't we look great!"

"No, we look like cutthroats," McCoy corrects, rubbing a thin leather string serving as a necklace between forefinger and thumb. "Are these _teeth_?"

"Fake teeth. Much cheaper than the real thing."

"Barbaric," the doctor mutters under his breath. He slants a sidelong glance at the junior officer. "Funny, but I don't remember paying for any of this." Half-expecting how uncomfortable the lieutenant looks, McCoy waits for the explanation.

"I, uh—I did the purchasing," Connock admits. At the doctor's continued staring, he clarifies in more of a murmur, "With my quarterly allowance. Since the 'Fleet covers the basics of living on a starship and my salary takes care of the rest, I almost never use it. There's… a lot."

"An allowance," Leonard repeats, not quite expressing a question.

Connock nods, his face faintly redder. "From my parents. They insist."

Leonard raises an eyebrow. "Well, far be it from me to judge parents who want to support a child far away from home."

The tension in the air lessens somewhat then, as though Connock's first assumption must have been to expect teasing remarks or, worse, having Leonard ask more prying questions. That makes the doctor wonder how often Connock is judged for receiving supplemental income.

Thinking it better to mind his own business, Leonard frowns deeply at his god-awful outfit, tugging at one of the many metal rings and buckles sewn into his vest. They jingle when he shifts on his feet. The vest itself is a monstrosity, some kind of fleshy hide that molds embarrassingly snug against his torso. Just his luck, he thinks, he won't be able to take the damn thing off later, and god forbid any undressing that may need to be done in a hurry!

He sighs to draw Connock's attention to his aggravation and grumps, "I guess this is about as far from Starfleet as we'll manage."

"Without looking like Klingons," Connock adds cheerfully, having forgotten any discomfort.

"Without looking like Klingons," Leonard agrees sourly. "I just hope you don't expect me to act the part of… whoever I look like."

"Don't worry, sir, you're still a doctor. Let's just say you might not be a _nice_ one."

McCoy cannot help but huff laughingly at that. "Was it my necklace of teeth that gave it away?"

The other fellow laughs too while stowing a communicator under a wide warrior's belt. After Connock also tucks his phaser into a holster made into the interior of his vest, McCoy takes the hint and does the same. He lingers over his medical tricorder, though, uneasy about its incongruency with the rest of his attire but more disconcerted by the thought of leaving it behind.

Connock seems to accurately read the dismay in his face, for he says, "If somebody asks where you got that, we can just say you stole it."

Relieved, McCoy nods and adjusts the tricorder's strap across his chest with a fond pat. After a moment, he decides, "Boy is Jim going to regret missing this part." On second thought, he adds wryly, "Going undercover is definitely more his style than mine."

"You'll do great."

"Glad one of us believes that, Lieutenant. Now, lead the way since you're the leader of this merry band of thugs."

Thanking the shopkeeper, who doesn't do more than scowl at the men in response, McCoy and Connock exit the shop. Connock rubs his hands together in clear excitement the moment they cross the threshold back into the shopping district's main thoroughfare.

"What a story this'll make to the fellas!"

McCoy shakes his head. "Stop grinning, kid. You don't look mean enough." He peruses the lane of traffic with a critical eye. "If the Inspector's men are tracking us, and probably they are, I doubt they're going to be covert about it."

"When they figure out we changed our plans, we're in trouble," Connock agrees. "But I would give it at least another thirty minutes before someone notices that and reports in. By then, luck willing, we will have Mr. Spock and Lt. Niraula with us."

"Either way, I expect Brams will try to have us arrested." McCoy sighs again. "Just what I wanted today. To look like a criminal and get treated like one."

The younger man turns to him, hesitation threaded into his tone. "Dr. McCoy, once we locate Mr. Spock and Niraula—"

Leonard finishes for him grimly, "—chances are being arrested will be the least of our worries. I'm aware, Lieutenant."

"Captain Kirk did tell us to be careful."

"Kirk can't hold us to a promise he wouldn't keep himself." McCoy breathes deeply and allows the moment's indignation to pass. "Anyway, you leave Jim to me. If it comes down to it, I'll take full responsibility."

Connock starts. "But—that's not right! Disguising ourselves was my idea."

"Who's the senior officer here?" snaps McCoy, then with a roll of his eyes points out, "Where I'm from, we say 'don't look a gift horse in the mouth.'"

"But—"

"Argue later," the doctor insists firmly, "locate our people now." He lifts his tricorder and adjusts the device's settings until it emits a continuous whirring noise. "Scanner's good to go." With a wide grin, he starts to bounce on the balls of his feet in excitement. "And would you look at that! We already have a signal. There's a half-Vulcan _thatta_ way."

Connock follows the direction of McCoy's finger and grins too. "Thank the stars for half-Vulcans… right, sir?"

McCoy quips, "Let's not go overboard," a twinkle in his eyes belying the comment.

Their confidence high and hope restored, McCoy and Connock let the tricorder guide them through the station.

* * *

"Incoming!"

The _Enterprise_ rocks from a blast to the starboard side.

Kirk tightens his grip on the arms of the captain's chair to keep from being launched out of it. "Ready phaser cannons. Return fire!"

"Firing phaser cannons… now!" the Weapons officer cries.

Sulu calls from the helm, "Shields at 80% and holding, Captain."

"Mark zero-two point four, Mr. Sulu." Kirk switches to, "Uhura—"

"Captain, there is no response on any frequency," Uhura quickly cuts in.

Kirk's left hand balls into a fist. Radio silence. Of course. Every move the _Trenchant_ has made has been well-calculated. At this point, the _Enterprise_ is working hard to keep the enemy dancing around them, but Kirk can't help but feel this engagement is an illusion somehow, like they're no more than two kids in the schoolyard fighting with wooden sticks instead of soldiers wielding deadly swords on the battlefield. And this particular schoolyard bully, he decides, keeps poking at him and his ship as if enough provocation should create an explosive reaction.

"Incoming!" cries Sulu once more.

Jim brings his fist down on his chair. Damn it. What is it the other ship wants?

Under his feet, the bridge shudders from another stronger hit to the starboard side.

"Damage report!" he barks.

From the Science station, filling in for its missing officer, Chekov responds, "Minimal damage to decks seven and eight."

Sulu supports that with "Shields at 78%," and then he and Chekov twist in each other's direction, trading a look across the bridge Kirk doesn't miss. Their body language is easily readable. Jim isn't the only one who thinks this is a mock-fight.

 _Enough_ , Kirk decides suddenly and slides off his chair to his feet. If there's one thing a captain should excel at (and Jim firmly believes those who know him very well would agree he's no exception), it is calling a bluff.

"Lower shields," he commands.

Every officer on the bridge other than Kirk freezes. If Spock had been there, no doubt his next action would have been to advise against whatever his captain is planning to do. Kirk thinks of that grimly, surprising himself with the acknowledgment that he would rather have to explain himself to his First than have Spock absent from his side.

On the heels of a shocked noise from Mr. Scott at the Engineering station, Sulu is the first to regain composure. The helmsman gives his captain only a brief look of thoughtful consideration before focusing on his console. "Shields down," he informs Kirk a moment later, calm as ever.

Jim might give Sulu a commendation simply for following orders without causing a ruckus. "Thank you, Mr. Sulu. Now drop us to impulse."

"Impulse engaged. What now, sir?"

"Come up on her slowly. I want them to see we have no intention of attacking."

At Kirk's back, some of the other officers indulge in a second little hitch of breath.

The starship under Kirk has the sensation of drifting. The captain widens his stance and crosses his arms over his chest, his full attention upon the cruiser on the main viewscreen. Around him, the atmosphere of the bridge takes on a hushed quality, the wailing of klaxons fading to the background.

"Chekov, alert me immediately if energy signatures suggest the _Trenchant_ may fire on us again."

"Aye, Keptin," Chekov says, though a current disbelief still rings clear in his tone. "Sir, the ship appears to be matching our pace. She is slowing down."

"Try them one more time, Uhura."

"Hailing the _Trenchant_ now."

Kirk twists around at the waist after a brief pause in time to see Uhura turn to face him.

"Acknowledgement received, Captain." The officer adds with softer exasperation, "But audio only."

Kirk nods once, unsurprised. This enemy is clearly a bully _and_ a coward—or has a very strong reason to hide his identity, which only makes Jim more suspicious about this already unusual situation. "Accept the transmission."

Though somewhat mechanized by the relay between ships, the voice retains a taunting quality. " _Enterprise, do you concede victory as ours?_ "

Kirk smiles thinly, raising his voice. "I concede only that this battle is boring. I have better ways to expend my ship's resources than playing a game of slap-sticks with a captain who's afraid to show himself." He barrels on arrogantly, "Since you claimed to be Clan, I assumed you would be worth my time and effort—clearly a miscalculation on my part."

Someone chokes. Jim thinks it might be Scotty.

" _Jim_ ," Kirk can hear a voice that sounds too much like McCoy's hissing in his ear, "what in god's name are you doing?"

Doing some poking of the proverbial bear of my own, he thinks wryly. Yes, Bones definitely would be having a fit right about now.

But still, it's not right. None of this is. Maybe the itch at the back of Jim's neck comes from anxiety. Maybe. Yet Kirk is certain that dancing around with this Clan idiot is doing his people back on Rel-7 no favors. They need him there, so the sooner he figures out the _Trenchant_ 's ploy, the sooner he returns to where he should be.

He swallows frustration. "Uhura, their reply—?"

"Captain, visual incoming."

Jim closes his eyes briefly in thanks, then drops his arms to his sides and squares his shoulders. "On screen, Lieutenant."

On the viewer, the _Trenchant_ 's commander can only be described, as McCoy might say, 'fit to be tied.' The deepened color in his face only enhances an already furious scowl. Oh yes, Jim has achieved something at least. He's pissed the Clansman off.

"You dare to call me a coward!"

Kirk smothers a grin. "Then why don't you offer me a real challenge?"

The commander snarls.

"So," Jim surmises, letting smugness coat his words, "since you cannot accept a challenge, then tell me who gave you the order to waste my time."

"Your insinuation is absurd. All Clan know how _unworthy_ Starfleet—"

"I have no patience for lies," Kirk cuts in. Raising an imperious hand, which he knows Uhura will recognize as a signal to stall, rather than fulfill, his next order. "Kill the channel, Lieutenant. We're done here."

On the viewscreen, the _Trenchant_ 's captain jerks forward. "No!"

Kirk mocks, "No? But I say differently… unless you have a way to change my mind?"

"You'll have your challenge, Captain Kirk of the _Enterprise_ ," the other man states angrily, fixing a hard stare upon them all, "but make no mistake, you will come to regret it right before you _die_."

"Overdramatic," mutters Chekov.

Kirk would find that amusing if he wasn't so busy working on the rest of his plan.

"Sounds good to me," Jim says flippantly and signals Uhura to end the transmission. Then he falls back into his chair with an abrupt little 'oof'. Noticing the way his crew is staring at him, he admits wryly, "This next part may be tricky."

Chekov bursts out, "Keptin, the _Trenchant_ is preparing to fire!"

"Shields!" Jim orders. "Evasive maneuvers, Mr. Sulu. Get us out of range." He draws a breath. "Then go to warp quickly—heading, Rel-7. We're going to outrun them."

No one questions why; his bridge crewmen simply go to work, and furiously at that.

Jim sinks back in his chair slightly, swallowing hard.

The _Trenchant_ will give pursuit, he is certain of it. The gamble he isn't certain about will be if anyone from Rel-7 steps in to help them fight off their attacker. If not, then that will be a kind of answer itself.

An answer Jim Kirk has to have to the question preying upon him: are the Rel-7 authorities responsible for the _Trenchant_ 's sudden engagement of the _Enterprise_?

* * *

Simply put, Lt. Niraula does not feel good. His body must be having some trouble shaking off the effects of the stunning, although as a security officer he is trained to recognize any signs of complications and this general malaise doesn't quite fit the description. Under normal circumstances, he would admit to someone (preferably another officer of the same rank) that he could use a moment to recover. But here he is, stuck in a bad situation that might get worse in an instant if he isn't vigilant, and also faced with a commanding officer who shows no indication of slowing down in his methodical, almost relentless inspection of container after container in the cargo hold. Niraula would hate to admit his need to rest only to have Mr. Spock look at him with no surprise, perhaps even a hint of disdain. A human, after all, has not the same indomitable stamina as a Vulcan. Tyee has heard these types of remarks come from Mr. Spock in the past, although most often directed to Captain Kirk or Dr. McCoy, who seem to have an amused tolerance for Vulcan arrogance.

Well, does it really matter if Mr. Spock touts his superiority to a subordinate like Niraula? Lesser ranking officers have. But true to Tyee's prideful nature, he decides to do the opposite of what he needs and instead hints that, if needed, he is capable of continuing the search for evidence on his own.

The third time Niraula drops such a hint (with far less tact than the prior two times), Mr. Spock places aside a handful of sealed opaque packets labeled as freeze-dried delicacies in order to cock his head in Niraula's direction.

"You are offering to relieve me. Why?"

"I wouldn't be so presumptuous," mutters Tyee, momentarily forgetting about acute Vulcan hearing.

"Thoughtfulness is never presumptuous, Lt. Niraula. I am merely inquiring after your reasoning."

Niraula is suddenly grateful that Mr. Spock is not in a position to read his expression. Guilt washes over him and, with it, the reminder that he shouldn't think poorly of someone else in light of his own shortcomings. "I apologize, Mr. Spock," he says quickly. "You don't need a break. I understand."

Spock falls briefly, oddly silent. Then he suggests, "We should both consider a period of rest."

Niraula almost stammers in his surprise. "Sir—I didn't mean that—"

"Rest would not be unwelcome," insists the commander, re-stacking the food packets into the container in front of him before resealing it and casually taking a seat there.

At Spock's expectant blink, Niraula snaps his mouth shut on a tiny "Um." Feeling like his self-flagellation has been circumvented somehow, he follows Spock's example and retreats to a stack of containers.

For a long moment, the two men stare at one another. Then the First Officer breaks the silence with "Perhaps during this respite, we could discuss the strategy of our escape. In the event an expedited retreat becomes necessary, it would be prudent to be coordinated in our efforts."

Some of the lethargy leaves Niraula at the suggestion, for planning an escape route is second nature to a man with a career in Security. "I have an idea or two."

"Very good." The Vulcan folds his hands in his lap that looks suspiciously like a pose of meditation. "Proceed."

Niraula gladly does.

It occurs to Tyee later that another superior might have lashed out at him for his (admittedly insolent) offer, dismissed it entirely, or let him take on the burden of the search alone as punishment. Commander Spock did none of those things. His superior accepted the offer at face-value whether or not it was genuine and, moreover, employed a solution that benefited them both without embarrassing either. That is the action of a person who comprehends that, at times, people are prone to making illogical requests, such as suggesting a break when in fact the one who suggests the break needs it most. It speaks to an uncanny insight that Niraula assumed a Vulcan would not have.

 _Who is Spock really?_ he begins to wonder then.

The answer, at the very least, is that Mr. Spock is not the person Tyee Niraula believed him to be.

* * *

Rom tugs at his earlobe, trying to soothe an odd itch there.

Dr. McCoy observes, "You must be on someone's mind."

"Is that a thing?" he wonders.

"In the South it is."

The pair has been drawn into another overly populated section of the port, and based on the characters hustling in and out of the shops and bars, this area is mainly patroned by the rowdy and the lawless. At one point, a drunken bystander had wedged his way between Connock and McCoy and tried to steer them towards a hole-in-the-wall establishment with promises of an evening they would never forget. Connock had peeled the fellow off McCoy with a very firm, slightly threatening negative response. But only after McCoy added with an insane grin, "Nice teeth," did their interloper abandon them in a hurry.

Rom likes McCoy a lot. But he also worries that McCoy might like his role as a rogue healer a little too much.

Mr. Spock and Niraula don't seem to be here, because the tricorder is insistent that they move on. Rom simply has to hurry them along before they are provoked into an actual confrontation with someone.

Unfortunately trying to navigate their path means Connock assumes McCoy will stay close and focused on their mission—an assumption he realizes was a false belief from the beginning once he glances sideways and discovers he's lost Dr. McCoy. For a heart-stopping moment, all Rom can think is that he will be on waste-collecting duty for the rest of his Starfleet career after Captain Kirk gets ahold of him.

Then he spies a familiar brown-haired head bobbing along the thoroughfare and breaks into a run with a howl of " _Doctor!_ "

Connock catches up to McCoy at the fringe of an unruly, noisy crowd. He grabs McCoy's arm, jerking the man off course, and almost gets clobbered with the doctor's fist for his effort.

"They're fighting!" McCoy snaps furiously. "Let me go!"

Rom does no such thing, instead swinging McCoy to the other side of him so that he can at least peer ahead and see what has caught the doctor's attention. What he makes out beyond the laughing, shouting onlookers is a pair of men grappling on the floor. "Not our business," Connock decides immediately. If they get involved in that, any attempt at inconspicuousness is over.

McCoy pulls his arm out of Connock's grip. "Like hell! There's blood on the floor."

Oh, Rom can see that.

McCoy's nostrils flare for a second, and then he explains as if Connock is too slow to understand, "Blood means at least one of those idiots needs medical attention."

"With respect, sir, you are _not_ supposed to be the kind of doctor who cares."

McCoy responds with a long moment of silence and uncomfortable staring. Then, all at once, the man curses under his breath and looks away.

Taking this as a good sign—or a sign of sanity—Connock gently tugs McCoy back in the direction they were originally going. People flow around them in the opposite direction, squishing themselves into the audience to get a good view of the violent brawl.

"Sorry," Rom says in a hushed voice, once the jeers and laughter of the bloodthirsty crowd fade enough to make it easy to be heard. "I know you only want to help."

"Kind of my job," grunts his companion with unhappy resignation. "Although I am frequently told my martyr complex prevents me from acknowledging obvious risks like exposure or death." The doctor sighs, then, and mutters, "You did the right thing, Lieutenant."

So why doesn't Rom feel that way? He sighs too. "I'm really sorry, Dr. McCoy."

"Enough with the apologies. Besides, someone will come along and break up that fight." The hint of anxiety in McCoy's tone says he doesn't necessarily believe that.

"The port security will," Rom claims firmly. "And while they're busy doing that, we'll get out of here and locate our crew."

McCoy curses again, this time more soundly, and picks up his tricorder. "Damn it! Spock! How could I have—"

The doctor stops abruptly, nearly making Connock stumble. With apprehension, Connock considers McCoy's intense stare at the tricorder. "What is it?"

"They're here."

Rom looks around. "Where?"

"Right here," McCoy says, bemused, raising his head to stare at Connock. "The signal is stronger in this spot than anywhere else I've seen."

Rom has to think about that for only a second. "They're below decks."

McCoy blinks. "What?"

Excitement rushes through him. "There would be storage compartments on the lower levels! Probably the engine room too."

"I'll be damned," states the doctor. "Well, let's get going!"

The excitement dissipates as quickly as it came. "We can't," Rom determines flatly. "Doctor… We would never make it past security."

"We're not turning back," insists McCoy.

Rom agrees, "Of course not. Never. But we need a good plan."

The doctor plucks at his outfit, exasperated. "What's the point of this then?"

An idea pops into Connock's head. "What an excellent idea! That could work."

McCoy looks at him like he has grown a second head. "What idea?"

Rom grins. "You said you wanted to help somebody. So punch me."

"Mr. Connock, I don't think you understand the concept of 'help.'"

"Sure I do! Punch me, and then drag me over to the nearest security guard station. I should need help, right?"

"Oh," McCoy says after a moment, "that kind of help." He lets the tricorder drop back to his side and cracks his knuckles, pausing to ask, "Are you sure, Lieutenant?"

"Positive." Connock tilts his chin invitingly. "Just don't tell the captain."

"Jim's done far worse and, god forbid, he might commend you for this," comes McCoy's retort. Then he orders, "Hold still," and clocks Connock square on the chin.

It turns out that getting punched by Dr. McCoy is the best and worst idea Rom has ever had in his life. When McCoy leans over him and asks how many fingers he is holding up, Rom decides muzzily, "I want that commendation."

* * *

Men in crisp uniforms elbow their way through the throngs of people, clearly having little sway on the present company despite their badges and stripes signifying them as Rel-7's esteemed security. At long last, one of the guards takes offense at his incremental progress and jabs the burly civilian in his path with a stunner. The man's shriek and subsequent writhing upon the floor makes room for the rest of his team.

They propel from the crowd and fan out into a half-circle around the two brutes staggering toward each other, dripping blood and no doubt exhausted but equally determined not to be the loser of their fight. One of them pauses to observe the newly arrived guards and looks almost relieved—and pays for that moment of inattention with a jab to the belly. Grunting, he drops to his knees and clutches at his abdomen.

The opponent shouts his victory and enjoys the uproarious response of the audience, laughing with them.

A cool voice, buoyed by disgust, precedes the dark-haired woman who appears behind the guards. "Shoot them both."

"You heard the Inspector!" The leader of the security team whips out his firearm and aims for the foolish victor still crowing.

Within moments, both fighters are senseless to their surroundings. The spectators scatter, recognizing the danger to themselves. Some flee in any random direction; others stroll away grousing about the abrupt end to the day's entertainment. In the end, the guards are left to heave their unconscious burdens upright and manhandle the men toward the nearest detention center for detainment and arrest.

"Report this incident to the Chief Inspector," the female inspector orders her men.

"Affirmative!"

After the team disperses, she remains behind, arms crossed, to survey the bystanders returning to their interrupted meals and errands within the thoroughfare. When someone approaches her from behind, coming to stand at her side, her expression remains neutral.

"Inspector Rima, how long has it been?"

"Not long enough, Captain," Rima replies, turning to face the man. "You engineered this?"

"But of course." Moor bares his teeth in the pretense of a smile. "It's not a difficult task to start a fight, you understand. The creatures here are highly uncouth and easily provoked."

"Manipulated, you mean," she corrects. "Well, your ploy worked. You have my attention—or was it Weyland you wanted?" She studies his gaze briefly, answering her own question. "No, obviously you know about Weyland. So what is that you want from me?"

"The answer isn't a simple one, I'm afraid."

"Cut the bullshit, Mortifer." Rima leans toward him, lowering her voice. "I know enough to ruin you."

Moor's gaze darkens. "I can say the same."

"So, shall we continue this pissing contest or come to the point?" demands the inspector coldly.

The _Revenant_ 's captain draws back with an odd hum under his breath, tugging at the cuffs of his plain uniform. Then he stops, seeming to catch himself in his distraction, and his smile turns rueful. "You are tougher than I remember, Rima. I like that. The point is I need a favor. And keep in mind I risk much by coming here to ask for it."

"What favor?" the woman questions warily.

"An introduction," Moor says in his benignest tone, "to a man named James Tiberius Kirk."

Rima's expression flickers with uncertainty, then. "The captain of the _Enterprise_."

Moor glances away, catching the eye of his subcommander lingering at a distance from over the inspector's shoulder and nods imperceptibly. The subcommander stiffens, then drops his gaze and slinks off with a nervous air.

"How do you know Captain Kirk?" Rima is asking.

"I don't," counters Moor. "That would be the problem. There is such high regard for Kirk that I feel I should meet the man in person."

"You're insane. He will have you thrown in the brig."

"Ah, but he won't meet _me_ , Inspector. Not the Clan Lord, that is."

Rima firms her mouth. "Whatever trouble you're after, Captain, keep it off Rel-7. We've had our fill of the likes of you."

"I wish I could," Moor croons, closing the distance between them, "but you must understand one crucial fact, my dear: without my influence, your precious Rel-7 would have never risen beyond the pathetic little waystation it was, hosting every kind of depraved and soulless scum from this galaxy. I am the reason Rel-7 _matters_ to anyone."

"That may be true, but clearly we're surviving without you."

Moor grabs her by the neck at the same moment she shoves her firearm into his stomach. After a long second of staring each other down, Moor's hand retreats from her throat, and he steps back.

"I want to speak with Kirk," he says again.

"And then you'll leave," she finishes.

He nods his assent. "You have my word."

Rima tucks her weapon back into her holster. "It can be done but not immediately. Kirk isn't here. He will return, however. I will provide you with a time and location for the introduction. And that is all I am willing to do. I have my own to protect here, Clan Lord."

Moor bows slightly from the waist. "Many thanks, dear Inspector."

Rima snorts her opinion of his gratitude and wordlessly watches the Master of Trappers stride away.


End file.
